


Apple Red

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Blackrom?, Classroom Sex, M/M, Teacher-Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pulls you into a kiss. Your teeth knock. It’s clumsy with both of your overbites, with his inexperience, “I hate how much you turn me on.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Red

Your name is Jake English, and…

This is stupid.

You’re sweating in your new suit. Well, new-old as D-Stri would say. “The type with worn elbows, passed around from thrift store to thrift store and fingered by grubby old perverts, itching to impress some pretty young thing. Maybe worn by some hotshot twenty years ago on prom night. Not out long enough to be in yet, bro.”

But you think you look dashing. Or, did, until you realized that this high school might not be funded as well as you thought, that your first job in some suburban cliché, with identical houses in neon, the clean-cut lawns, the poodles on short leashes and sprinklers that will drown you if you step too close, would be one of luxury, and you find that, as many times before this, you were dreadfully, dreadfully mistaken.

So it’s the first day of second semester school, and you’re the new student teacher. You’re twenty-five and fresh out of college, with boundless student loans to pay off, a lazy pile of fat for an adviser, and—

Everything is fine at first. It’s hot, and you’re sweating, but the kids are nice. They’re seniors. You’d imagine that they would be.

You teach for a short while. You allow them to work in small groups. You pace through the rows of desks and check their work, then teach some more when they’re all caught up.

The first half an hour passes without incident, until you start to hear a very nervous sort of chatter, a small erupting of laughter, and it silences when you turn to look back at the class, which only grows as you continue writing on the whiteboard.

The marker squeaks against the surface and you attempt to watch your class out of the corner of your eye.

The bell rings, they rush from the room, and as you’re gathering your things. Your mentor boasts a hearty laugh, claps you on the back, and pulls something from your suit jacket that crinkles in his palms.

“You need to pay more attention to your surroundings, Mr. English,” he chuckles, and you internally groan.

He couldn’t have possibly told you that you’d had a note on you this entire time.

Like you’d expect these seventeen and eighteen your olds to pull something so elementary.

In a sloppy hand, there are two words scrawled above a crudely drawn portrait - across the college-ruled lines of the paper. You flush. Roxy and Dirk have teased you about your lingo since you guys were kids, but you honestly can’t remember uttering this phrase during your lesson. You’re embarrassed by your inability contain your homemade slogans.

‘Gazooks Buster!’

They exaggerated your overbite. You’re embarrassed about that as well.

In this picture, with no artistic talent honed whatsoever, a quick doodle that’s been rudely tacked onto your being, you look foolish and ugly, stupid and extremely out of place in this day and age.

And that’s exactly how it makes you feel.

You don’t pace through the desks during your next lessons, and you’re careful to squelch any remnants of your accent from your paper-dry words.

They sound as bland and washed out as the stiff letters on the page you read from. You feel so small that you might be able to squeeze between those lines and hide away forever.

You wish you could.

—

The next day, you find yourself skimming through the classroom with sharp eyes. You pick through the appearance of each of your first hour students, reading their expressions in search of an obvious sign, maybe, that they’re capable of making a fool out of you. You want to know which one has beef with you.

You’re not entirely sure what you’ll do if you find out.

Class blurs by as you go through last night’s homework. You call on a buck-toothed boy for number five, part B, and he obviously doesn’t know it.

“Which year did France join the UN, Mr. Egbert?” you draw out slowly, pity and guilt heavy in the pit of your belly. You hate being the teacher to call out students like this, “Ninteen…?”

His face is scarlet and he shakes his head. You watch him for a moment, the way he twitches at the whispers and quiet jeers of his peers.

You mouth the number four.

“Forty… three?” He has no idea. It’s a shot in the dark.

But you nod nonetheless, smile, try to pretend that you don’t find anything wrong with his inability to pay attention to the answers you went over just a day prior. You try to understand that History isn’t for everyone.

“Close,” You don’t understand how anyone could find the adventures through centuries and centuries of civilization boring in the least. Even a drunken Roxy will listen tentatively if you teach her the right material, “1945. Does anyone know which other notable events went down in 1945?”

You check your back as the students leave later on. You pass through the empty desks, cleaning up stray paper and collecting lost pens and pencils for the “borrowing” jar on your desk.

There is a crumpled up note under a desk in the back. You try to remember who sat there, pulling it open as your mentor comments on how nosy you are, laughing.

It’s a picture of you again. The same artist.

Your face feels like it’s been set on fire.

You wonder if it’s possible to file sexual harassment against an anonymous student.

‘German air raids weren’t the only thing that went down in 1945’

You’re throat-deep around the biggest cartoon cock you’re ever seen.

Your mentor is hysteric when you show him the drawing.

—

The next three days consist of the same thing, although your anonymous bully has taken to leaving other little “presents” in their wake as well. You’ve slipped on marbles, you sat on tacks. Your computer wallpaper has been changed, the rather embarrassing pictures of your and Dirk on your 21st birthday from your flash drive somehow finding their way onto your powerpoint presentation about the Cold War—and no one seemed willing to say much to you about it until you turned around, mid-sentence, to find a photo of your best bro and yourself in an apparent battle for tongue-related dominance in Roxy’s bath tub, and you’re so humiliated that you request to take the rest of the day off.

This is getting ridiculous.

You confide in Dirk, because he’s your best friend and a master at dealing with sticky situations—and also a parent, in his own right, you suppose, what with raising his younger brother the way he has.

“You just to show them whose boss,” the blond suggests, mending the seams of a purple, large-assed puppet of his, “Make the kid your bitch. Call them out in class and make their life Hell.”

That sounds nice, yes, but you’re not sure if you have it in you.

Dirk’s little bro saunters in after some time, short-shorts barely visible beneath his oversized shirt. You try to train your eyes away from those milky, freckle-splattered thighs. You’ve always thought that a teenaged boy dressing in such revealing clothing was odd, and especially in front of his older brother and older brother’s friends, but…

Dirk has assured you that you don’t want to know why.

This family has always given you the weirdest vibes.

Dave climbs up to the bar stool next to you. His glasses are fogged from sleep. He must have dozed off in them again. He spares you the smallest of nods, running nimble fingers through his hair as he watches Dirk from across the counter. He looks especially translucently pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Hey, dweeb,” he’s eying you over his shoulder. His gaze continues to flick back to his brother, who pointedly ignores him, “My bro Egbert says you’re standing in for this fat fuck of a history teacher of his.”

And, after a beat of silence, “Well, he said he’s been pranking some spaz who sounds like he’s hopped right out of the 1800s. I connected the dots.”

Pranking. You bite your lip.

“He’s been pranking me?”

He hums, tapping the counter with the nail of his pointer finger. He’s biting his lip and staring very intently at his older brother. Dirk is paying him no mind. He never does. It’s always like this.

But you ignore the weird air here for now. John Egbert is the one who has been terrorizing you. The buck-toothed little D student is the one who has been giving you shit all this time.

And to think, you felt sorry for him!

You call Roxy on the ride home, her voice booming on speaker phone as rain begins to tap against your windshield. You turn into your apartment complex.

“Don’ take it too seriously,” she drawls, as comforting in her drunken stage than any of the middle aged mothers you have ever met, “Sounds to me like… that boy’s got a crush of Jakey-Jakey.”

You switch your phone to regular speaker as you lock your car, rain staining your shoulders as you head toward your apartment.

“See Jakey, you’re the kinda guy who loves… things. Y’know what I mean, Jakey? You love adventures and you go fuckin’ cray over that history shit, and it’s so fuckin’ cute, man. You’re cute. I think that lil kid would be dumb not to realize that.”

“He’s not a little kid, Roxy. He’s most likely already eighteen years old. Seventeen at the youngest,” a neighbor sends you a strange look as you unlock your front door. You begin speaking in a lower tone, “And I don’t think that’s the case. Strider thinks I should give him a taste of his own medicine.”

She laughs, and she repeats her theory. She continues to repeat it four or five times more for good measure, and you’re tucking yourself in by the time she’s lulled herself into a drunken slumber.

You consider her words. You don’t see yourself as some handsome man who makes the teens swoon. You’ve never wanted to be in this position.

But… what if she’s right?

Roxy has a way of knowing things. She always has.

You fall asleep wondering why John Egbert has targeted you, and if you might ever actually figure it out.

—

The next day, you slide into class in the very last thing to ever be considered similar to style. The floor is slicked over with something so slippery that it’s hard to even refrain from falling right on your face, and the class laughs unapologetically as you finally gain footing.

A bottle of baby oil sits proudly on top of your desk. He’s getting risky.

Your vision seems to tunnel on a certain John Egbert. Your mentor is sick today. You decide that you’ll finally let this little shit know that you’re hip to his game.

You’re sure to call on him for the first question. He doesn’t know it, and you don’t help him. You watch as he fumbles with the answers and the class laughs. Guilt nags at your heart, but your shoes are still slick against the tile. He deserves this.

And when the hour trudges by, and the bell finally rings, over your shoulder as you erase the board, you say,

“Mr. Egbert, please stay after class.”

The class ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’, but you ignore it. He seems to stiffen, breath caught, face losing any trace of color.

He knows that you know.

The room clears, and you take your time erasing the board, turning ever-so-slowly and sauntering over to the door. You close it softly.

You’re uncharacteristically enraged.

He’s sitting in a front row desk now, drumming the surface with his fingers.

“Do you understand why I asked you to stay after class?”

You expect him to lie right through those bucked teeth, to stammer and blush, and spew out excuse after exc—

“Because I’ve been pranking you.”

It takes a moment to collect yourself. He’s honest.

“That’s not pranking,” you retort shakily, insulted by the implication that any of those heinous acts could be considered just lighthearted fun, “That’s borderline sexual harassment!”

He stares at you blankly.

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

Your mouth agape, eyes wide, you are flabbergasted. Not even Dirk has been so forward in his proposals, and you’re beyond yourself with shock.

“W-what is that supposed to mean?”

A beat of silence. He laughs.

“I think you know.”

You slam down the eraser in your hand. Everything is a blur of rage and confusion, of the utter humiliation you’ve felt over the last month, the frustration, and the mystery that has made this so much more stressful than it should have been.

And you’re kissing him. What are you doing, why are you kissing him?! What the Hell is going on?!

But he kisses back, and he’s tearing at your clothes, and you hate how hard you get when he drags his tongue along your lips and slips the jacket from your shoulders.

This is so insanely stupid.

This little shit pulls himself from his seat, lacing his fingers in your hair and tugging you down to his level.

This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

He’s tearing so hard at your dress shirt that the top button pops off, hopping up onto the surface of the desk, and you struggle not to imagine the next student that will sit there.

His legs are around your waist. He’s hard and you hate that you can feel it. You hate that you’re kissing him that that your cock is throbbing and it’s all his fault.

This is so stupid that you could die.

‘Slippery slope,’ D-Stri’s voice chimes in your head, ‘Nothing is so stupid that you could die. Not eating dinner with your family isn’t going to cause World War III. Stop acting like everything is the end of the world. It’s bad speech-writing etiquette.’

You really need to stop thinking about other people while this is happening.

It’s not making the situation any better.

You work your hands beneath his shirt, mapping out the soft skin you find there, deviating from his mouth and kissing along his jawline, his neck, the junction of his shoulder.

He’s working your fly. There’s a second in which everything is really bright, and loud, and you can feel the vibrations of voices and footsteps in the halls, and you suddenly want nothing more than to back out of this. It’s a huge mistake. You can’t even imagine the trouble you’d be in if someone were to stumble in on this little tryst.

But he pulls your dick from your pants, touches you clumsily. He’s bad at it. You bite down and he keens. You can almost feel the twitch of his cock through the material between you and him.

Your fingers find his nipples. He muffles a moan into your shoulder. He smells of vanilla, of soap and shampoo. He smells so much younger than all of the men you’ve been with. It’s another cue to pull away, the alarms blaring and warning bells jingling.

And you ignore it, again.

Your cock is out and the air is cold around it. He’s fumbling with his button. You’re pulling up his shirt, tucking it under his armpits. Your mouth covers him.

You guess he’s finally gotten out of his pants, because your hands wander, and they find his dick. You’re jacking him off. He’s putty beneath you. He’s muffling cries into his knuckles.

“You’re awfully quiet for such a little wanker,” you hiss, dragging your thumb along his slit and noting the wetness you find there.

“T-that’s your problem, numbnuts,” he huffs, trembling, “No one says s-shit like that here. And you’re not even f-from England. You told us the f-first day that you’re from Montana, and who the Hell is from Montana—“

“I grew up there, you impetuous dolt—“

“Yeah, I k-know,” He’s red-faced as he looks down at you, his cock in your hands, his body wracked with pleasure, “You say really weird things that can’t even constitute as outdated because who has ever said those things ever, and you sit up there with this huge boner for history, telling us about shit that we don’t care about but somehow making everyone feel bad for not caring because you do so much and—“

He pulls you into a kiss. Your teeth knock. It’s clumsy with both of your overbites, with his inexperience.

“I hate how much you turn me on.”

You stare at him for only a second. The bottle of baby oil is still sitting on top of your desk. You knock over your pencil jar in an attempt to grab at it, hurrying back to him.

“You’re a horrible student,” you huff, tugging his pants down to his ankles, “Have you even turned in one assignment?”

You drag down his boxers. His fingers are tugging at your hair. He’s giddy and you hate him, and you want to fuck him until he can’t make that snide little smile at you ever again.

“You harass me, you degrade me,” you’re kissing down his chest, down his stomach, muttering against his skin, “You are the worst thing that has ever happened to my career. Do you understand how expensive university is?”

“College,” he breathes, and you glower at him, slicking oil on your fingers.

“Whatever, you fuddie-duddie,” and he laughs so hard that you push a finger inside of him without warning, just to shut him up.

And he whines, but doesn’t protest. You finger him with an obvious urgency. Two fingers, then three, and he’s melting at your touch. You think maybe if you pleasure him enough, he might just forget how to be a smartass.

Then, finally, you’re pressing your erection to his entrance, barking at him to look you in the eyes, the tiny worry that maybe your hour between classes will run out before you’re through. That maybe some enthusiastic honor student might wander in, with the request for extra credit in mind.

You think maybe you’ll pass them with an 120% if they promise to keep their mouth shut.

John snaps at you to pay attention, and you kiss him. You want to shut him up. He shouldn’t be saying anything that makes too much sense.

And there is a beat of silence in which you suck in a breath. You look him in the eyes and tell him that it will hurt. He scoffs at you. He’s done this before, he says, with his friend.

Your mind snaps momentarily to Dave. You wonder if he let Dave call him Dirk.

It’s such a disturbing thought that you almost back out.

But you don’t. You push in. It’s so tight, and he’s gritting his teeth, and everything is a blur of pleasure through the discomfort of how fucking tight it is, and suddenly—

Suddenly you’re waiting for him to calm down, for him to stop shaking. You play with his dick. You nip at his neck, and he’s shuttering in pain until he’s shuttering in pleasure, and the switch is so quick that you almost don’t catch it at all.

“Move, grandpa,” he commands, voice wet with tears, “Don’t break your hips.”

Old jokes. His heart isn’t in it anymore.

So you start to move, and it’s so good that you make some noise. Your mouth is still biting and sucking at his neck. Your hand is still pumping his dick.

He’s pulling at the shirt that he never quite got off of you, tearing at the buttons, moaning quietly—words that just might be your name, just might be insults, absolutely are insults, and some things that are so beyond decipherable that you don’t even try.

You find his prostate. You can tell because you definitely pull ‘English’ from the obnoxious and dangerous way that he cries out.

You’re kissing him then, to shut him up. You’re fucking him so hard that the desk is scraping against the floor. You’re three feet away from its original spot before you even notice, and you still don’t care.

He garbles a curse into your mouth, scratches at your chest, ankles knocking against your back as he tightens around your shaft, and—

He cums a lot. It splatters against your dress shirt. He’s spitting out your name like it tastes awful. Then he’s limp and struggling to catch his breath.

You’re laughing because he’s showing the worst bedroom sport, finishing and just giving up, but you keep fucking him. And after a thrust or two more, you bury yourself deep inside of him, grunting a curse before cumming.

It’s hard, and it wracks your frame. You’re seeing stars and feeling fire shoot through your veins. The warmth in your lower belly spreads to your knees and all the way to the top of your head, and everything is suddenly a fuzzy mirror image of reality.

Your limbs are rubber and you’re lax against him.

And you’re not sure how long you sit there.

“Mr. English,” he pipes up, after what seems like only a moment has passed, “Am I allowed to go to my next class?”

You still hate him. He’s still an infuriating little prick.

You pull out of him and click your tongue at your shirt. Your jacket covers the stain, but you can feel it sticking to your skin. Your pants are pulled up. Your dick is tucked back in.

John is redressed when you turn back to him. His eyes are wide behind his glasses.

You stare at him for a moment. He’s pretty in the last of his adolescence. Long lashes, high cheekbones, full lips—he is a geeky, conniving, male version of the lovely lady that you’re always dreamed of. You wonder if maybe something might happen between the two of you. If maybe this wasn’t the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.

“Do I get extra credit for this?” He asks.

You were wrong.

This is a mistake.

You are an idiot.

“Get out,” you spit, scooting the desk back in place right as he jumps off, “Go away! Gazooks! Out!”

And he laughs, a very open, joyous laugh, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally got around to, you know... doing this. Making an account on here. So this is a repost from my tumblog. Uhhhhh, it was a gift and whatnot, and a whole lot of fun to write. So, I hope you enjoyed it!


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